


Restaurant Tonore

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How would the Empty Hearse reunion have gone if Mary Morstan hadn't come into play?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restaurant Tonore

John glanced nervously at his watch, and then took a sip from a tall glass of red wine on the table in front of him. The restaurant around him was fairly busy- there were couples sitting at nearly every table, chattering quietly or staring into each other’s eyes in silence.

John straightened his tie again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark-haired waiter approaching him, and he turned around in time to see the other man lighting a match with a flourish. He touched it to the candle in the centre of the table before smiling at John.

“Your date,” The waiter said with a strong Italian accent. “He is here.”

“He?” John mumbled incredulously. He masked his frown with a polite smile to the waiter. The waiter nodded to another worker standing by the counter who started off for the front door of the restaurant.

“He will be here in a moment,” the waiter added. This time John definitely frowned. It hadn’t just been a slip of the tongue.

The waiter left, and John sat there for a few more moments in silence. He couldn’t help a feeling of nervous excitement from rising within him as he brushed a hand through his hair.

He glanced up at the sound of the restaurant door opening. He caught a glimpse of the worker stepping in and gesturing to John’s table, but looked back down the moment he saw another man following behind.

John smiled nervously behind his moustache before another frown crossed his face. He could have sworn that the other man was a certain person he knew- or rather, used to know. John knew that he was being stupid, and it was probably his mind playing tricks on him, but he couldn’t help looking back up to see the man who was now half way to his table.

John’s mouth fell open as he stared at the man. There was no mistaking his identity now. It was a tall man in a long, black coat and scarf that was approaching his table. The man’s face was straight, but when he caught John’s eye a small smile started to spread across it.

John stared at the man, recognising his cold eyes, tousled dark hair and high, strong cheekbones. He was exactly how John remembered him in those last days before…

But no, something was different. There was certain sadness in his eyes that no amount of smiling could mask, not noticeable to most people but John knew this man better than anyone. 

“Sherlock.” The name tumbled out of John’s mouth as the other man reached the table. The man’s mouth curled up again at the edges.

“John. You recognise me.” Sherlock looked relieved, but John’s eyes suddenly filled with panic. Still, he couldn’t take them off the other man.

“You’re... You’re dead, Sherlock.” John’s moustache quivered slightly and anger chased the surprise out of his eyes.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Yes, about that-” Sherlock started, his deep voice strangely calm. He was cut off by John, who suddenly leapt out of his chair and sent it crashing to the ground. Sherlock looked mildly surprised at John’s reaction.

“I thought you were fucking dead!” John repeated, his voice rising.

“John. John, I can explain.” Sherlock told John. There was silence for a moment as the other customers in the restaurant sneaked sideways glances at John. “Don’t cause a scene.”

“Don’t cause a scene?” John shouted. “Don’t cause a fucking scene? And what do you think you caused when you jumped off the fucking roof?”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “I didn’t have a choice, John. I can explain.”

“Oh, you’d better explain. You had better explain right now before I-“

“You really don’t suit a moustache,” Sherlock interrupted in a matter-of-fact tone, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

At this, John’s face began to turn a bright shade of red. “And where the hell have you been for the past two years? You don’t know what it’s been like, Sherlock. You were the only person I had back then and I trusted you, I depended on you- and then you fucking died!”

John punched Sherlock squarely in the jaw, and the other man recoiled hurriedly with a pained expression on his face. John was surprisingly strong for a man of his size. Sherlock rubbed the side of his face tenderly but didn’t punch John back.

“Have you been alive this whole time?” John continued. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you,” his voice dropped to an emotional whisper; “Why didn’t you come to see me? Didn’t you trust me?” He was standing next to Sherlock now, staring up at him angrily.

In a feverish rage, he stepped back and grabbed a chair from behind him, flinging it almost effortlessly at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock ducked out of the way and the chair sailed over his head, landing heavily on the next table. A collective gasp rose around the restaurant, and there was another crash as the waiter dropped a tray of food in shock.

“Of course I trust you, John. I told you; you’re my only friend. I just couldn’t tell you because it wasn’t safe.” Sherlock broke the silence with a quiet, soothing voice.

“You didn’t tell anyone?”

“Only Molly,” replied Sherlock, earning himself another punch. He inhaled sharply as John’s fist collided with his cheekbone.

“Molly? She knew this whole time? You told Molly but not me?”

Sherlock nodded in reply, ignoring the blood rushing to his face. John’s voice was rising again, and his expression was simultaneously one of confusion and understanding. It made sense now that she had been avoiding him ever since Sherlock fell.

John winced at the memory of that day. No matter how hard he had tried to forget it, his nightmares were always full of the rooftop silhouette of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, against the skyline of London City.

After Sherlock’s death, John had tried his hardest to forget that he had ever existed. It had been too painful to accept that he was gone. John had been the only man to understand Sherlock and, although he would never admit it, Sherlock was the only one that knew John as well.

But no matter how hard he had tried to forget, there were always the little things that reminded him of his years with Sherlock. Little things, like reading about obscure crimes in the newspaper or meeting an old client in the surgery.

It was the lack of things that was harder, though. The things he missed. He missed everything about his old life, from the body parts in the kitchen to the sudden thrill of a case. He hadn’t been back to 221B Baker Street since Sherlock’s death. He hadn’t been able to bear it.

Mrs Hudson had brought all of his things to his new flat, which was a plain, modern place. Not that he had much; only a few jumpers and a couple of personal things. As far as he knew, she still had all of Sherlock’s things in 221B. He hadn’t spoken to her for months, but when they had last met up for a cup of tea she had told him that she hadn’t been able to find any new tenants.

John had soon realised that it was impossible to forget a man like Sherlock Holmes. He focused on the happy memories like the playful insults and the nights alone together in 221B Baker Street. He tried to remember the wonder and amazement that always filled him when he watched his friend at work. But before long, the memories of intense enjoyment on Sherlock’s face always mingled with those of his broken, bloody body lying on the street beside St. Barts.

Recently he had been attempting to break out of the boring, constant patterns of life. He had tried different things to break the cycle of days, but none of his hobbies had turned out well. After ending up with several broken fingers from a row with a tennis racket, he had decided that the only thing to do would be to bring new people into his life. John had been inadvertently avoiding all the people he used to know, like Lestrade and Molly, finding himself unable to bear all the memories that came flooding back when he spoke to them.  
Instead he had signed up for an online dating service. It made him feel ridiculous, making himself do such a thing, but he was never going to meet anyone on his journeys between work and home.

That was how he had ended up at the restaurant. He had got an anonymous message inviting him on a date, and he had been so desperate for distractions that he had accepted despite the fact that he didn’t know who the other person was going to be.  
The fact that it was Sherlock that had turned up had not quite sunken in yet. John was filled with all kinds of emotions; not only anger at what his friend had done but also elated happiness that he was alive. The celebrations, however, could come later.  
Sherlock was the one to continue the conversation. “I had to tell Molly,” he said quietly. “She was the one that saved me. I had to jump; I didn’t have a choice about that. I did it to save your life, John.”

John shook his head exasperatedly, not questioning what Sherlock was saying. He had other questions that were more important.

At that moment the waiter approached the table. He looked understandably nervous. “Sir-Sorry, sirs- I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He bit his lip nervously, obviously fearing for his own safety.

“Ah... Yes, sorry.” John glanced around the restaurant, his eyes widening as he took in the other customers staring in silence. He paled visibly as his eyes swept the room. When they fell upon the chair still upended on the other table, the people sitting there frozen in a shocked silence, John spoke again.

“Sorry; I am so sorry.” Still the other people in the restaurant were quiet. “I didn’t mean to shout. And-“ John paused and lifted the chair off the other table, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about the chair.” He smoothed the tablecloth, his every movement being followed by the people sitting there.

Suddenly John glanced down at his hand. It was perfectly steady. The intermittent tremor had come back in his hand just a few weeks after Sherlock’s suicide, and it would usually be acting up by now. Nowadays it was triggered by stress rather than lack of excitement like it had been when he had first returned to London. But here he was, in a stranger situation than he had ever imagined, and there wasn’t even a twitch.

He turned his hand over in wonder, but his fingertips collided with the edge of a wine glass. It tipped over with a clink, the deep red liquid splashing all over the white tablecloth and the delicate fabric of the dress clothing the woman at the table.

She shrieked loudly, and John stared at the tiny splashes of rich wine soaking slowly into the fabric. He opened his mouth to apologise again, mortified at his own clumsiness, but before he had a chance to speak his arms were grabbed roughly from behind.

John didn’t even have to turn to know that security had arrived to escort him outside. He grunted as his hands were twisted up behind his back, but held back a protest. He was already embarrassed enough.

Out of corner of his eye he could see Sherlock being manhandled in the same way. He caught the other man’s eye and couldn’t help but give a small smile. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in response, but a little smile crept onto his face as well.

The two men were thrown out onto the street, stumbling across the pavement as the restaurant door slammed shut behind them.

“I’ve never been thrown out of a restaurant before,” John chuckled. Sherlock looked vaguely surprised at the fact that the anger had suddenly disappeared from his friend’s face. They set off down the pavement together.

“I must be a bad influence,” Sherlock said factually. A passer-by gave them an odd look, and John was confused for a moment before realising how strange they must look together. Sherlock was striding along confidently, a massive grin plastered on his usually controlled face, and John was wearing a similar expression. He had to take twice as many steps to keep up with Sherlock’s huge strides.

“Where are we going?” John asked suddenly.

“221B, of course. Mrs Hudson hasn’t rented it out yet, probably for the same reason you grew that ridiculous moustache.” John tried to look insulted, but ended up grinning even more. He ruffled his sandy hair again nervously, suddenly feeling shy in Sherlock’s presence.

“Oh John, you’ve made it all stand on end.” Sherlock scolded. He reached up to John’s head and smoothed his hair down again.

He looked down to see John’s cheeks turn a rosy pink colour in the orange glow of the streetlight. Sherlock stared back into John’s eyes. They were now filled with adoration, all traces of anger dissolved, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the intense emotion suddenly rising inside him.

After a long moment he realised that his hand was still tangled in John’s hair. He pulled it back hurriedly and took a step away, but John reached out and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace.

“Welcome home, Sherlock.” He mumbled softly. His words were lost in the folds of soft purple fabric on Sherlock’s chest.


End file.
